


Junon

by occidorien



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/F, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:33:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27428728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/occidorien/pseuds/occidorien
Summary: And yet, Andrea does not take the bait even though Miranda knows she’s noticed. Andrea is too attentive not to have. Miranda’s seen slight double takes and heard slight, swallowed gasps. It is frustrating. Miranda can’t get near approaching such a personal topic as past family vacations. It’s random, ridiculous. Why does it matter anyway? Miranda is mystified, but compelled.
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 21
Kudos: 127
Collections: Femslash Exchange 2020





	Junon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mangledgutspretending](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangledgutspretending/gifts).



Miranda observed the girl for several minutes, studying her as she gazed upon the various gowns on display. The girl had circled the gallery twice and finally settled on the dress Miranda herself was viewing. She knew what she saw in the piece, Dior’s “Junon,” with its magnificent skirt reminiscent of eyeless peacock feathers draped and cascading over one another to the floor, but couldn’t fathom what might have the little girl, who couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old, so enthralled. Well, other than _sparkly_. Now, the girl’s nose was pressed to the glass encasing the gown and Miranda suspected if she could the girl would reach out to run her fingertips along the elaborately embroidered silk tulle.

She supposed she watched the girl just for the amusement of observing unfettered interest. It was a refreshing break from the world in which she lived; yes, everyone showed an interest, but always with an angle. Even she was guilty of that. But this girl was a reminder of how she used to love for love’s sake and not just as a stepping stone... Regardless, suppressing her own susceptibility to awe had recently paid off. That very morning, at the age of 32, she was made the youngest ever editor in chief of Runway magazine.

Once she was able to escape endless meetings with board members and company men, many of whom she’d no doubt have to glad-hand in the future, she came to the Metropolitan Museum’s showing of early _haute couture_ masters seeking perspective. Her life would intensify in the coming months and years, she knew, if her designs for Runway were to materialize, and she just wanted a moment to breathe, to savor a victory, to stand upon a precipice and see how far she’d come and how far she’d yet to travel. She wanted reprieve she knew was fleeting and, just as sentimentality was threatening, she noticed the girl.

Curiosity getting the better of her, Miranda stepped up to the display and stood next to the girl. Without taking her eyes from the dress, Miranda said, “So, what do you make of it?”

The girl stepped back from the glass, startled, and looked up at Miranda. “Um... It’s pretty...” Miranda looked down at her and the girl gulped. Miranda raised a sculpted eyebrow in expectation. They stared at each other for a few moments before the girl managed to break away from Miranda’s gaze to look back at the dress. “It’s beautiful, actually. I think it’s my favorite in the room.” Miranda hummed, bringing a delicate fingertip to her chin in consideration as she looked back at the gown. 

Gaining confidence, the girl continued, “Um... Some of the colors in it are kind of like your eyes...” She trailed off and shrugged, giving Miranda a lopsided smile. 

At that, Miranda froze. Casually, she side-eyed the girl. “My eyes?”

The girl shrugged again. “Well, sure. I mean, the blue parts.”

Miranda chuckled under her breath, then hummed again. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather that white gown over there?” She gestured vaguely toward another display. 

The girl shook her head. “Nope, too princessy, you know? I’m not into princesses. Princess stuff is boring.”

“ _Princess stuff_.” Miranda began to wonder why she’d started this conversation. She squinted toward the darker corners of the gallery. They were alone except for a few patrons lingering near the entrance. “Where are your parents?”

“Around,” the girl said, uncaring. “I bet you liked princesses when you were little.” She studied Miranda. “You look like a princess who’s turned into a queen. Pretty like that, you know? Like this dress.”

Miranda stood there, nonplussed, staring down into impossibly brown, guileless eyes. Slowly, she shook her head. “I’m no princess, but yes, perhaps a queen of a sort.”

Beaming, the girl squeaked, “I knew it! Are you queen of a country or something? My mom said it’s possible to meet anybody in New York because it’s so big.” She started rocking back forth in excitement, while ruffling the bangs of her brown hair, which Miranda thought were a bit too short for the shape of her face. “She’ll never believe me when I tell her I met a queen. I’d never meet a queen at home. That’s why I want to move here when I’m older...”

Miranda couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such a lengthy conversation with a child. Probably never. She began walking around the display, studying the gown at every angle, and was pleased when the girl followed her. "You know, young lady, New York City is not for the faint-hearted." Miranda glanced over her shoulder. "With so many people, it can be hard to stand out, be noticed." The girl nodded, her eyes only for Miranda now. “And nothing will ever be given because nothing is free, so you must be prepared to work hard.”

“My parents tell me that, too.” The girl nodded again.

Miranda indicated “Junon” with a wave of her hand. “This particular gown is one of only four created by its designer. Look closely—each sequin you see was embroidered by hand.” She noted the girl had stopped to examine the billowy skirt, her brow furrowed, her mouth silently repeating _by hand_.

The girl raised disbelieving eyes to Miranda. “Every single one of these little sparkly things was put on by hand?”

“Sequins,” Miranda corrected, looking back at the girl intently. “Sewn. This is the kind of work of which I’m speaking.” Perhaps, she realized, she was speaking to herself as much to the girl, weaving that well-worn, tireless thread of _no rest_ tighter still. Well, there would be no rest for months to come; Runway was a stagnant quagmire of disgraceful taste, far removed from its illustrious history and bleeding readership in near-panic-inducing numbers. She was under no illusions that her promotion wasn’t a last ditch effort. She would either be a savior or a scapegoat. 

The girl had gone back to studying the Dior gown, but Miranda had the feeling she might be trying to count the sequins. She was absentmindedly playing with her too-short bangs again. Miranda wondered if she might have children of her own one day. She’d probably have to schedule them, which reminded her to discuss with her fiancé, James, the best time to plan a wedding. It would be best to broach the subject that night after she informed him of her promotion. 

Miranda moved to stand behind the girl. The gown was a shimmering backdrop to their reflections in the glass. She tilted her head to the side, eyes narrowing as she studied the girl and the dress simultaneously. The girl’s hair was in a ponytail, accentuating her softly rounded face. Miranda thought the girl had potential enough to be quite beautiful someday. She entertained the notion of the girl in the Dior gown; a breathtaking debutante. She hoped the girl would one day wake up to those horrible bangs, though, because those would not do. Noticing that the girl was fidgeting under her scrutiny, Miranda said, “Didn’t your parents teach you not to speak to strangers?” She watched alarm bloom in the girl’s eyes, which were paler in the reflection, washed out. 

“Y-yes.”

Miranda nodded and pursed her lips. “And wouldn’t they be displeased to find you speaking with me?”

The girl seemed to come to her senses as she looked around the gallery, realizing she was quite alone with Miranda. “Yeah... probably...” She turned to face Miranda. “But, maybe if I know your name and you know mine, then we won’t be strangers.”

Miranda watched the girl meet her eyes bravely, could see the hope that Miranda wasn’t some weirdo warring with the fear that she’d stumbled into a hypothetical horror story taught in after school specials. Despite herself, Miranda was charmed. She couldn’t begrudge the girl a valid point. “Very well,” she said, “my name is—“

“Young lady, you are in big trouble!” A deep voice boomed into the quiet gallery, startling both Miranda and the girl. Miranda began to pivot on her heel toward the sound, meaning to give the rude idiot a piece of her mind, when she saw the panic on the girl’s reddening face and understood. Ah, the parents.

A man rounded the Dior display, eyes locked on the girl, followed closely by a harried brunette who might’ve been pretty had she not looked so panicked. Miranda estimated they were about her age. They were dressed like a typical summer tourists—polo shirts tucked into khaki shorts, revolting white tennis shoes. The man set a large hand on the girl’s shoulder and shook her. “We have been looking everywhere for you!” Miranda managed to stop from stepping between the girl and her father, thinking his reaction a bit extreme before reminding herself she wasn’t yet a parent.

“Thank God you’re all right,” the girl’s mother sighed, pulling her into a tight hug. “Why did you wander off the like that, sweetie?”

The girl shrugged. “I got tired of looking at columns and big, armless statues. Plus, you guys wanted to stay in the crowded places and the people we were stuck by stank.” 

The mother groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Miranda stifled a laugh as she took a step back, hoping to leave the little family tableau to itself. The man caught her movement, only just realizing she was there. “I apologize if our daughter was bothering you.” Miranda looked at the girl who was now flanked by her parents, shook her head, and smirked. “No, no bother. We were just discussing Dior, weren’t we, princess?”

The girl made a frustrated sound and rolled her eyes. “Ugh, whatever with the princess stuff, queenie.”

Miranda did laugh at that, and at the perplexed looks on the parents’ faces as they led their daughter from the gallery. She watched the girl go, wondering at the unexpected turn of events. The girl looked back, waving over her shoulder as she turned the corner at the gallery’s entrance, and then she was gone. 

Turning back to the Dior gown, Miranda felt oddly bereft.

Miranda can’t precisely say why it is she hires the frumpy girl. Maybe it’s because she’s bored and wants to torture Emily, or herself. Maybe she hires the girl out of spite, as a silent fuck you to naysayers and circling sharks, those who had grown complacent in the shadow of her peerless tutelage. She can smell blood in the water as well as they can, so doing the unexpected might be just what’s needed; hence, the smart, fat girl. Let them think she’s finally losing it. Losing some sort of mythical edge that she is sorry to report never existed anyway. It is beyond ridiculous how simply paying attention is treated as witchcraft.

Or, perhaps it is just boredom. 

The new second assistant is efficient in a studious sort of way and something about the way she is amused by fashion _irks_ Miranda. So Miranda decides to put this Andrea Sachs through her paces. She is quite capable of running a successful magazine while engaging in light torture. Soon, she discovers Andrea is a bit of a lurker, a lingerer, a watcher. Unknowingly, she touches upon a sore spot for Miranda that is becoming difficult to ignore, a small fear—tiny, most likely inconsequential—of people not looking anymore. Stephen sure as hell wasn’t looking and he hadn’t for quite a while, but there are times when she notices Andrea looking. A glance lingering a moment too long. Andrea seems as if she is studying Miranda, trying to figure out some mystery. Miranda thinks it must be due to exposure to someone with taste; Andrea certainly doesn’t look as if she’s had much of that in her life if her wardrobe and hair choices are anything to go by. 

Yet, Andrea rises to every occasion as if she is an Olympian trained to excel in Miranda’s grueling tests. Her competency is an ever-increasing intoxicant. It seems as if she is born to exceed all expectations until she turns up on the second floor of the townhouse and witnesses Miranda in a moment of vulnerability. She catches Miranda placating Stephen’s fragile ego and the ire, and rather unexpected embarrassment, Miranda feels is a shock to her system. She can’t remember the last time she’s been so furious, both for having to soothe Stephen and for being caught in a moment of weakness by an employee—but not just any employee.

It’s Miranda’s daughters who fortuitously offer Miranda sweet revenge by insisting on having the latest Harry Potter novel for their trip upstate to visit their grandmother. She gives Andrea the impossible task of obtaining the unpublished manuscript knowing she can use the failure to fire Andrea. If it’s petty, it’s petty; so be it. 

And when Andrea drops the manuscript on her desk with a smug grin, Miranda is, for the first time in a very long time, speechless.

In her den, Miranda stands in the dark. She’s just turned the light out, preparing to head upstairs to bed, when she hears Andrea enter the house. She pauses by the door, marking Andrea’s footsteps through the foyer to the closet and the sound of the closet door opening then latching shut. As she moves to step out of the den and make herself known, she hears Andrea speak.

“Hey, Cassidy... Are you okay?”

Her daughter answers, sounding farther away, probably from the stairs. “I had a nightmare.” 

Miranda feels an involuntary pang in her chest at the thought of her daughter being frightened and unable to find her. 

“Oh...” Andrea sounds hesitant, unsure. Miranda surmises she’s weighing the consequences of being caught speaking with Cassidy. “Um, sometimes it helps to talk about nightmares, to say what scared you out loud can help it seem not so scary...”

Miranda rolls her eyes at the eloquence. Cassidy sniffles. “I was in a dark castle being chased by something I couldn’t see.” Footsteps—Andrea approaching the stairs, perhaps. “I was wearing a white dress, but kept tripping over it and falling down when I tried to run faster. I was thinking the dress was so pretty that my mom would kill me if she knew I was ruining it...” Cassidy sniffles again, louder. “But I couldn’t help it. I had to run!” Miranda can tell Cassidy’s crying now and despite wanting to rush to her daughter, she wants more to see how Andrea reacts.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Come here.” Andrea makes soothing sounds as Cassidy’s muffled sobs resound in the quiet. She figures Andrea is holding Cassidy close and the image of that, of Andrea cuddling Cassidy as they sit together on the stairs, pierces Miranda’s heart in an unexpectedly bittersweet way. She feels a tingle as a shiver works its way up her spine, causing the hair on the back of her neck to rise.

Gradually, Cassidy calms down. Andrea says, “So, do you know why you were in the castle or did you just show up there?”

“I think I was meant to be there. I mean, it seemed familiar to me, like I’ve dreamt of it before.” Cassidy sniffles then sighs. “I’ve dreamt before that I was a princess. I used to pretend I was one when I was little. I know it sounds dumb and is for babies, but I just like princesses. The idea of them, I guess.” 

Andrea’s voice is reassuring. “I don’t think that’s dumb, Cass. At all. It’s normal, you know? It just happens to be something you like, neither good nor bad. It just is.”

Miranda can’t hear Cassidy’s reply, just more sniffling, and imagines her daughter is in dire need of tissues. She remembers well Cassidy’s princess phase, which obviously hasn’t yet passed. Every Halloween costume from ages four through nine was a variation of a princess. “Did you ever like princesses when you were little, Andy?” 

“Uh, no, not really,” Andrea chuckles. “I wasn’t into princesses. I always thought princess stuff was kind of boring.”

Miranda has to steady herself against the door jamb as she remembers a moment years ago when she’d had a similar discussion about princesses in front the Dior “Junon” gown at the Met with some little girl who had bright, brown, kind-looking eyes and chopped up bangs and a softly rounded face... A silly, infectious grin...

Taking a step backward into the den, Miranda fades out of Andrea and Cassidy’s conversation as she considers that Andrea could be the girl she’d met all those years ago. She’s never forgotten that day, mainly because it was the day she was promoted to editor in chief, but also because of that little girl who had been so random and engaging and bowled over by the Dior gown. She almost laughs aloud. It can’t be.

Andrea can’t be.

Since the night of Cassidy’s nightmare, Miranda’s been playing a dangerous little game. Flirting with revealing vulnerabilities in Andrea’s presence, hoping to coax her into impromptu conversation. A vague murmured remark that could be plausibly denied. A lingering emotion left in her eyes or face before her implacable mask slides back into place. Little moments passing so quick they’re hardly noticeable but for a person paying attention. 

And yet, Andrea does not take the bait even though Miranda knows she’s noticed. Andrea is too attentive not to have. Miranda’s seen slight double takes and heard slight, swallowed gasps. It is frustrating. Miranda can’t get near approaching such a personal topic as past family vacations. It’s random, ridiculous. She can’t just ask Andrea outright. She’s not one to make casual conversation with an assistant. Why does it matter if Andrea is that girl anyway? Miranda is mystified, but compelled. 

Days later, she still grapples with how to confirm her suspicion. She sits very still in her office, pretending to examine a layout, and listens. The lilting murmur of Emily’s accented voice, her intermittent tapping at the keyboard, punctuated by a crescendo clack of heels fast approaching, their momentary halt, a whispered conversation—Serena, Miranda recognizes, her murmur deeper, huskier, less lilting. The heavy breathing of Andrea arriving with fresh coffee. She hears Emily tell Andrea to look after the desk while she steps away and then the sound of retreating footsteps.

Miranda doesn’t look up from the layout on her desk as Andrea enters her office. And that’s when it happens. Apropos of nothing, Miranda says, “I think it’s important to travel with children. The girls’ father and I try to travel some place new with them every year.”

A Starbucks coffee cup hits her desk with a thud and tips onto its side. Andrea gasps and snatches it up before more than a bit of its contents spill onto the desk. She apologizes profusely, but Miranda snags a cloth from a nearby drawer and waves Andrea back from the desk. As she sops up the coffee, Miranda feels the mortification radiating from Andrea. She’s certain it matches her own, but her annoyance covers it well.

“Um, where will you be taking the girls this year?” Andrea, ever dutiful, doesn’t leave her hanging. Miranda could kiss her.

“Hm?” Miranda affects disinterest as she examines the layout, which, thankfully, avoided any damage.

“I’m sure you take the twins to some pretty impressive places. The most exotic place we got to see when I was younger was New York.” Miranda sneaks a glance up toward Andrea who is staring down at Miranda’s desk as if lost in thought. “It was the last trip we took before my mom got sick…”

Miranda recalls the vague shape of a petite woman, the impression of panic and dismay. Judging by Andrea’s demeanor, her mother must not have recovered.

Andrea’s eyes widen as she shakes herself from memories out of Miranda’s grasp. She watches Miranda as she backs up toward the door. “I’m sorry, Miranda. D-Do you need anything else?”

Miranda wants to say that Andrea needn’t leave, needn’t feel as if she’s done something wrong, but she doesn’t. Instead, she says, “That’s all.”

That evening, it’s a moment’s work to find a picture of Andrea’s mother along with the date of her passing and confirm what Miranda felt so viscerally that night in her den.

Miranda’s heels beat a rapid tattoo as she storms down the marble hallway toward her hotel room. She squeezes her gloves in a tight, white-knuckled grip. She needs to make it to her room. Just make it to the room. Usually, she would have people trailing in her wake, but not now. She sets such a furious pace she doesn’t think even Emily could have kept up. God, what she wouldn't give to have Emily here now. Someone obedient. Everyone else has been dismissed. Everyone. Well, who was left? Nigel. By the skin of Miranda’s teeth. 

But not _her_. No, she walked away. Walked away from her job. Walked away from Miranda.

The door to her room slams shut and she is alone. 

A desperate laugh rattles out of her, upsetting the silence. She knows she should laugh to stop from crying over the absurd situation in which she finds herself, but, as she bites her lip against the weight welling in her throat, a sob escapes anyway. Then she’s just a silly old woman hanging on to the back of a chair while crying over realizing she is in love with a woman half her age. A woman who loathes Miranda so much she would abandon her. Miranda knows it’s irrational; after all, what did she expect? For Andrea to knock on the door and ask for a meeting so they could discuss any misgivings Andrea might have about working for Miranda, or, hell, Miranda herself? How was Andrea to know she could’ve done that, should’ve done that, force Miranda’s hand and make her confess to having feelings for Andrea while holding Stephen’s divorce papers in her lap? Miranda laughs through her tears, the irony too rich.

There wasn’t time to approach Andrea and explain they had met before. Miranda didn’t know where to begin that conversation. There simply wasn’t time to contemplate it between fighting with Stephen on a daily basis, caring for her girls, and preparing for Paris. She’d hoped that after Paris she might reveal all to Andrea, acknowledge what’s been growing between them since that afternoon of spilled coffee in her office. She knows Andrea feels it too. It justifies the way Andrea came to her in such a panic, hellbent on warning Miranda about Irv and Jacqueline Follet and Christian Thompson and takeovers. Yes, she felt a pang at Andrea’s palpable disappointment in the car following the luncheon, but, at the time, she thought it fleeting. Andrea proved her wrong.

Miranda feels like an idiot now that she understands. To have believed all of these years she was seeing in color. Because now that she is looking, really looking, she realizes she must have been colorblind. It’s the only explanation. For realizing she is in love with Andrea, for the gray washed away in the rush of capitulation. Has she ever been in love before? Cognizant now of how she feels for Andrea, she doesn’t think it likely.

Still clothed, Miranda lies down on the bed. She wipes under her eyes and gives herself permission to rest for a few moments. She settles on letting things settle. For now. Devising a way to see Andrea again and making it count will keep until morning. 

It’s been three months since she’s seen Andrea. She won’t deny being nervous. These next moments are crucial to her happiness. Still, she won’t let Andrea feel that pressure. Feel the import, yes. The expediency of the moment. The need to not waste any more time. 

She paces in the foyer of the Met awaiting Andrea's arrival. She's called in more than a few favors to make this happen. If Andrea doesn't show, it will be an embarrassment, but not a public one. A small comfort. She checks her watch. Andrea is five minutes late. Sighing, she turns back toward the doors and there stands—

"Andrea."

Andrea looks radiant, obviously dressed for a night out. From the annoyed look on Andrea's face, Miranda gleans Andrea has not dressed for her. A faint pang of jealousy stirs within her, but she dismisses it. Andrea is here, now, and any other point is moot. 

The door closes behind Andrea with a jarring clunk. She crosses her arms and doesn't approach. "Well, this is weird and ominous, even for you, Miranda." 

Smiling faintly, Miranda offers a short nod of agreement. "There's something I want to show you." Off Andy's skeptical look she adds, "I won't keep you long."

Andrea studies her. Probably trying to find a lie, Miranda thinks. "This couldn't be sent in an email?"

"No."

Arms dropping to her sides, Andrea says, "Lead on, then."

Their footsteps echo through the cavernous, empty building as they move toward the Costume Institute wing. Miranda notes that Andrea stays a few steps behind her. Apparently deciding caution is best, just in case. It stings. But it's not as if Miranda can blame her. 

Once they enter the Costume Institute space, Miranda begins to feel her nerves, adrenaline building. It's a few short steps down a hall and into a gallery displaying the banner "The Model as Muse: Embodying Fashion" and she will know whether she's been a fool. She moves into the gallery and stops. The gown is displayed just as she requested, without a glass enclosure. It is the only piece lit in the room, a soft light from above striking its sequins and throwing an ethereal web of sparks into the darkness. Andrea gasps when she sees it. 

Miranda smiles. "Quite. This is what I want to show you."

Side by side, they approach the gown.

"Who is it?"

"Dior, 1949. This piece is called ‘Junon’.”

Miranda stops short of the dress and watches Andrea's rapt face, thinking Andrea has indeed fulfilled her potential to become a beautiful woman. 

Andrea reaches out to touch the gown, but hesitates. Miranda nods permission. Andrea smiles, her eyes wide with wonder, as her hands skim over the delicate skirt. "God, there's so much color. The pale and royal blues, complimented with purples, lavenders, mints, silvers, blacks. The burnt orange and green…”

Miranda hums in agreement. "All embroidered by hand."

“It’s breathtaking. So much iridescent blue. It’s like your eyes, Miran—“ Andrea stops and Miranda watches as her face flushes with embarrassment, which soon fades into realization. She studies Andrea, memorizing every breath taken through parted lips only starting to tremble in earnest. "Oh my god."

Miranda raises an elegant eyebrow and gives Andrea a wry smile. “I imagined you might make an impressive debutante in that gown. Princess. ”

Andrea steps back, putting a hand to her mouth in shock. “Oh. My. God.”

“Exactly.”

“Wha…? How? How long have you known? When did you know?”

Miranda shrugs. “For awhile. I overheard you comforting Cassidy one night after you dropped off the Book and something you said… tickled me…”

“Miranda, I don’t know what to say.” Andrea’s voice is thick with tears. She frowns. “This better not be some super cynical ploy to get me to come back to work for you because I’m telling you right now there’s no way in hell.”

Nodding, Miranda takes a deep breath and steps toward Andrea. “Then consider this an uncynical attempt at asking you to return to me.” She closes the distance and kisses Andrea. As the kiss deepens, the noise of Miranda’s life fades until there is only the sound of Andrea’s quiet moans. The kiss slows and they part, but remain wrapped up in each other.

Andrea grins. “I didn’t dare think this was possible, queenie.”

Miranda's laugh is soft as she caresses the tears from Andrea’s cheeks. “I’ll take that.”

The end.

**Author's Note:**

> It was a pleasure writing for you, mangledgutspretending. I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
